


the very heart of it

by schweet_heart



Series: Avengers Fic [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: 5+1 Things, Community: avengerkink, Domestic Avengers, Fluff, Hey soldier, M/M, Nicknames, Oblivious!Tony, Schmoop with a side of snark, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, avengerkink prompt, pining!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:32:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Tony cracks one eye open. Steve is looking down at him, a slight smile of indulgence curling his lips, and Tony blinks, wondering when he'd gotten so familiar with the variations of expression on the Captain's face.</i> </p><p>  <i>“Hey Soldier,” he mumbles, unable to muster the energy to sound annoyed. “I see you drew the short straw.”</i></p><p>Five times Steve woke Tony, and one time Tony woke him. Written for <a href="http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/6021.html?thread=9988997#t9988997">this</a> avengerkink prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York," since apparently I forgot to say that before.

Tony doesn't sleep through SHIELD meetings as a rule, but only because he seldom attends them. He claims – not without reason – that he's too busy, and so far he has come up with half a dozen new inventions to prove it, ranging from homing arrows to thermal armour to a prototype “invisi-suit” which, okay, didn't actually work out but was a good idea while it lasted. The point is, Fury should be happy that he's even _turned up_ ; keeping his eyes open and actually paying attention is asking far too much from someone who spent the last thirty-two hours neck deep in the guts of the Iron Man suit, attempting to improve its maneuverability, and also its imperviousness to slime.

 

He's leaning back in his chair listening to Fury de-brief the team and contemplating other possible uses of the word “de-brief” (hey, it's not his fault he belongs to a team of freakishly attractive superheroes whose costumes leave little to the imagination) when his eyes close, and it's only supposed to be for a minute except that he kind of maybe sleeps through the rest of the meeting. Whatever. The next thing he knows, someone's hand is on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

 

“Tony. Wake up.”

 

“Mmmgh?”

 

Tony cracks one eye open. Steve is looking down at him, a slight smile of indulgence curling his lips, and Tony blinks, wondering when he'd gotten so familiar with the variations of expression on the Captain's face.

 

“Hey Soldier,” he mumbles, unable to muster the energy to sound annoyed. “I see you drew the short straw.”

 

Steve's hand drops away and his eyes widen, but it's not until consciousness fully returns that Tony realises the rest of the team is also staring at him in utter silence.

 

“What?” he says. “Do I have drool on my face or something?”

 

“Do you realise what you just – “ Clint begins, only to stop with a suddenness that makes Tony suspect one of the Black Widow's heels just impacted heavily with his shin. Natasha is looking at him with a speculative expression, which might mean he _does_ have drool on his face, or it may just be that she's contemplating how best to kill him using only her pinky and one of the little hair-clip-thingies currently holding back her auburn curls.

 

“Tired, Stark?” she asks, smiling sweetly.

 

“I'm not answering that. You might use it as an excuse to steal a kidney while my guard is down,” Tony informs her, pushing his chair away from the table and stretching out the kinks in his neck. “Where's Fury?”

 

“He left,” Steve says. “The meeting ended ten minutes ago.”

 

“So that means we're free to go, right?”

 

For a second, Steve just watches him, the same considering look in his eyes that had been on Natasha's face. Tony swipes instinctively at his chin, then at his cheeks in the hopes of removing whatever the hell it is that's making them all act so strangely. Then the Captain shrugs. “Yeah. We're free to go.”

 

“Excellent,” Tony says. “Let's blow this popsicle stand.”

 

Seriously, the sooner they get out of this room the better because the way Coulson is looking at him is starting to give him the creeps.


	2. Chapter 2

At first Steve is convinced it's a fluke – they were all a little punchy after the mission, he thinks, Tony was probably just kidding around – until it happens again.

 

In the few months since he and the other Avengers had moved into the newly renovated Tower, Steve has grown used to the fact that sleep is apparently one of those things Tony believes only happens to other people, along with similar mundanities like speeding tickets and choosing your own tie. So it doesn't surprise him when, after spending the past forty-eight hours holed up in his workshop, Tony reappears in the kitchen with grease in his hair and makes a beeline for the coffee machine without bothering to say hello.

 

“Morning, Tony,” he says around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Long night?”

 

Tony appears not to hear him. He's standing in front of the coffee-maker with his head bowed, his eyes reduced to tired slits in his puffy face. It's an open question whether or not he's aware of what he's doing at more than a subconscious level, but he seems to believe he can make the water boil faster simply by glaring at it.

 

“Tony is not a morning person,” Clint comments drily, watching him from his perch on the kitchen counter. “My latest theory is that he's a vampire.”

 

“I vote for zombie, myself,” Natasha says.

 

“You're both wrong,” says Bruce. “He's a cyborg.”

 

When the others turn to stare at him, he shrugs. “What, I can't have an opinion? The man works even harder than I do; he has to be part machine.”

 

Thor, of course, takes this literally, and begins to speculate as to the extent of technological-dependence in Midgardian society, while the others try alternately to explain (Bruce) and to further confuse him by bringing up fictional examples of artificial intelligence gone awry (Clint). Steve gets to his feet, gathering their abandoned dishes, and moves to join Tony by the sink.

 

“Let me get that,” he says, taking the mug from Tony's slack grip and nudging him out of the way. He fills the cup with coffee – black with a ridiculous amount of sugar, the way Tony likes it – then puts it back in Tony's hands and wraps his fingers around it. “It's hot,” he warns. “Be careful.”

 

Ignoring him, Tony takes a large gulp of the steaming contents, tipping his head back in ecstasy.

 

“Coffeeee,” he sighs.

 

“Right,” agrees Steve, amused. “Tony, this is coffee. Coffee, Tony. I can leave now if the two of you would like to be alone.”

 

Tony's eyes fly open. “Steve.”

 

“Yes, Tony," Steve says patiently. Trying to have a conversation with Tony after a string of all-nighters is almost as bad as trying to talk to him when he's in the _middle_ of an inventing binge, but the routine is familiar enough that his general obliviousness doesn't bother Steve any more than usual. At least, not until Tony smiles – a heartbreakingly sincere smile that hits Steve like a punch to the gut.

 

"Hey Soldier," he says, like Steve's the best thing in the world and he's just found out about it. "Good coffee. Coffee's good. Nearly dissolved my tongue, but good."

 

"Uh. Thanks?"

 

"I'm serious. Have you ever thought of becoming a barista? You could save people's lives with coffee instead of with your muscles. Much safer that way. Right guys?”

 

Nobody answers. Conversation at the table seems to have come to a stuttering halt in the face of this unexpected gregariousness, and Tony shrugs, apparently not understanding that he's done anything unusual. He shuffles out of the room with the mug still clutched in his hand, wiggling his fingers at the other Avengers as he leaves.

 

The five of them stare at each other in silence.

 

“What just happened?” Bruce asks at last, turning to Steve as if for explanation. Steve can only shake his head.

 

“Has anyone else considered the possibility that Tony may be a pod person?” asks Clint.


	3. Chapter 3

It's not that Steve and Tony aren't friends, because they are. And it's not that Steve thinks Tony is incapable of being nice to anyone, because Steve is a good guy who usually assumes the best about people, leastwise when they're not actively trying to kill him, and he's sure Tony could be nice enough if the mood struck. It's just that Tony's idea of demonstrativeness typically involves giving someone expensive gifts or loaning them his private island; or, on one memorable occasion, attempting to buy an entire baseball team as an apology (it didn't end well). So this new...whatever-it-is, the thing he keeps doing when Steve wakes him up – it's far enough outside of his normal behaviour patterns that Steve isn't entirely sure what it means, or how he's supposed to deal with it. So he decides to consult an expert.

 

“Tony has a pet name for you?” Pepper asks with some surprise. “It isn't Captain Tight-Ass, is it? Because I told him he shouldn't – ”

 

“Uh, no,” Steve says, interrupting before she can get too upset. “No, it's not...that. It's, uh. He calls me Soldier. Sometimes. When he first wakes up.”

 

“When he first wakes up,” she repeats.

 

“Yeah. He fell asleep during a briefing the other day, and when I woke him up, he said – and then yesterday in the kitchen, too. Only he's not really – it was kind of – I was just...wondering. If he's said anything to you about it.”

 

There is a long silence, and Steve begins to wonder if maybe he's committed some kind of accidental faux pas. The future can be a strange place sometimes, and he's still not familiar with all the ins and outs of social etiquette. In the end, though, Pepper just smiles a little, a tiny twist to her lips that looks like it hurts, and pats him on the arm.

 

“Tony doesn't really talk about his feelings much,” she says. “It was one of the reasons we broke up.”

 

“Oh,” Steve says. Then, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring up unpleasant memories. If you'd rather not talk about it – ”

 

Pepper waves it away with one hand. “Ancient history,” she says, though he can tell it's not. “And we don't hate each other, which is a miracle in itself, what with Tony being _Tony_ and all, but it does mean I can't help you. He hasn't said anything to me about – that sort of thing. For, uh, a while, actually. Sorry.”

 

“It's okay,” Steve assures her. “Thank you anyway.”

 

“You're welcome.” For some reason, Pepper is looking at him closely, as if trying to gauge something from his expression. “You know, I can tell him to stop if he's bothering you. If he's just woken up, he probably doesn't even know he's doing it. You know what he's like. It's practically a reflex.”

 

Steve thinks back to Tony's sleep-smudged, uncharacteristically open face, the raw affection in his voice. He's pretty sure Pepper's right, that Tony _doesn't_ know he's doing it, but that's what makes it so intriguing; it's like getting a glimpse of what's really going on inside his head before the filters slip into place, and instinct tells him it's more _real_ than 90% of the other stuff that comes out of Tony's mouth.

 

“It doesn't bother me,” he says.

 

Pepper pats him on the arm again and gives him another smile, a real one this time.

 

“That's the spirit, Captain,” she tells him. “And don't worry. You'll get used to it.”

 

There's something off about the whole exchange, but it's not until he's already left the office and is waiting for the elevator that he begins to understand what it was. Pepper's expression had reminded him of the way his own face used to look, when girls would come up to him asking if his handsome friend Bucky would like to dance, or whether Bucky had a girlfriend yet. It was the face of someone who'd been put in the middle unexpectedly and was finding it really, really uncomfortable, in ways they had never thought possible.

 

Steve is abruptly struck with the mental image of himself as a child going up to child-Pepper and asking, “Does Tony like me? As in, _like me_ like me?” the way kids sometimes do. Which would be kind of funny except he can't help thinking maybe Pepper had gotten the same impression, and the whole conversation was her way of letting him down gently.

 

And he's not entirely sure how he feels about that.

 

*

 

One thing he _does_ know, however, is that whatever Tony may feel when he's half asleep or running on coffee fumes, it certainly doesn't seem to bleed over into his waking life.

 

“Have I done something to offend you?” he demands, advancing on Steve with intent after their latest mission goes pear-shaped. “Pissed you off, maybe? Or is it _that_ _difficult_ for you to share the glory with the rest of the class?”

 

“What?” Caught off guard, Steve can only blink at him. “What are you talking about?”

 

“I'm _talking_ about you sticking me out in left field like I'm some delicate little buttercup who can't even catch a lousy ground ball!” Tony exclaims, finger jabbing him repeatedly in the chest. “I hate to break it to you, Cap, but I am not made of fucking porcelain, and I don't appreciate being sidelined for absolutely no reason.”

 

Steve stares at him, dumbfounded. “I wasn't – “ he begins, but Tony just keeps going, steamrollering right over any explanation he might care to give.

 

“One time, _one time_ I get slimed by monsters and you seem to think I'm a liability. I upgraded the suit, it's working fine, I know how to handle myself and _you_ need to stop sending me where all the action _isn't_ before you end up getting someone killed.”

 

“Me?! You're the one who decided to mess up the plan,” Steve snaps at him, stung. “If you'd just stayed where you were supposed to – “

 

“It was a bad plan. I came up with a better one. You keep forgetting you're not the only one with a brain around here, Captain Stick-Up-My-Ass.”

 

Steve reminds himself to take deep breaths. It was true that Tony's idea had been effective, and the way the two of them had worked almost perfectly in sync had been exhilarating. It had also been reckless, foolhardy, unnecessary and borderline suicidal, all of which he has no qualms in telling Tony in the firmest, most no-nonsense tone he can muster. The memory of Iron Man swooping directly into the creature's path when he was supposed to be well out of harm's way is one that still makes the bottom drop out of his stomach.

 

“I ran the numbers,” Tony protests, looking affronted. “It was perfectly safe. Well, for a given value of safe. There was a slight risk of my getting a limb bitten off, but what's a missing arm between friends?”

 

“This team does not just revolve around _you_ ,” Steve growls. “Don't you understand that? You have _no idea_ the destruction you could have caused – “

 

“It's called _adaptability_ , Captain – “

 

“ – there were _civilians_ , did you even stop to think – “

 

“ – considered it a virtue, but I guess back in the _Dark Ages_ they preferred soldiers who couldn't think for themselves – “

 

A loud whistle interrupts them, and they turn in unison to see Natasha standing in the doorway, both eyebrows raised and one hand on her hips. For an instant, Steve is forcibly reminded of his mother, who used to stand at the top of their stoop in just the same attitude, scolding him and Bucky for getting too rowdy when they played in the street outside. They'd been fighting then, too, only with fists and cardboard weapons, not with words.

 

“It's a little late in the day for open warfare, don't you think?” Natasha asks. “At least let the rest of us eat something before you start in with the heavy artillery.”

 

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, stepping into the kitchen behind her and making a beeline for the fridge. “It's bad for the kids to listen to Mommy and Daddy fight.”

 

“We're not fighting,” Steve says wearily, just as Tony says, with biting emphasis, “ _He_ started it.”

 

“Very mature,” says Natasha. “No, really. How is it you two run team of elite superheroes again?”

 

“I have no idea,” Tony snaps back. “Why don't you ask Steve? He's the Star Spangled Man with a Plan, after all.”

 

Steve won't go so far as to say Tony _flounces_ , but there is definitely a kind of petulant exaggeration to his exit that might, had he been less irritated, have made Steve laugh. He rubs a thumb up the bridge of his nose and sighs. Sometimes it occurs to him to wonder how the two of them manage to get along at all, let alone save the world on a regular basis.

 

*

 

Tony is a marathon sulker – he skulks off to his workshop for days at a time, whether or not he's mad at anyone, so he's had plenty of practice with the silent treatment – but he seldom holds a grudge for very long. Steve keeps to himself and worries, coming up with half a dozen different attempts at apology and rejecting all of them, but when Tony re-emerges three days later (just in time for the Avengers' movie night, which is _so_ not a coincidence) the billionaire behaves as if everything's fine between them. Maybe it is.

 

“Move over, road hogs,” he demands, depositing himself onto the cushions between Bruce and Steve without waiting, his shoulder against Steve's and his feet in Bruce's lap. Bruce makes noises of protest, but Steve just shifts to make room for him, wondering if this means Tony has forgiven him, and if he even wants to be forgiven. After all, he hadn't done anything _wrong_ exactly. Tony's head is heavy against his side, and he's obviously exhausted. He can't keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes, and by the time the plot actually starts to get interesting he's fast asleep on the cushions, sprawling across both Steve and Bruce with typical abandon. Steve watches him more than the movie, noting the furrowed brow, the down-turned mouth. The on-screen mystery is far less compelling than the real live enigma sitting right beside him.

 

By the time the snacks run out about half way through the film, Steve's left arm has gone numb and he's fairly sure his hand has fallen asleep, so it makes sense for him to volunteer to make some more popcorn and attempt to regain the feeling in his limbs. He has to push Tony off to do it, though, and while he does his best not to disturb him, Tony's eyes are open as he stands up.

 

“Hey Soldier,” he says softly. Steve glances down at him, at the tousled curls and eyes heavy with sleep, and there it is again – that look.

 

“Hey yourself, Shellhead,” he says, striving for normalcy. “Sorry I woke you. You want anything from the kitchen?”

 

“Bring me some M&Ms?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Thanks.” Steve turns to go, but Tony catches hold of his sleeve.

 

“We good?” he asks, more seriously than Steve would have expected. “About the other day, I mean.”

 

Steve looks at Tony's hand on his wrist and then back to his face, a helpless flutter starting up at the base of his throat. “Of course,” he says. Because really, it's a foregone conclusion. “As long as you admit I was right and promise never to disobey an order ever again.”

 

“You're such a spoilsport.”

 

“I do my best.”

 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Clint complains from the armchair. He throws the last of the popcorn at Steve, who straightens, and it bounces off him onto the floor. “Why don't you two get a room already, you're ruining this for the rest of us.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Natasha says.

 

“No, don't,” says Bruce. “Some of us would actually like to hear the dialogue.”

 

“Why would Tony Stark want to obtain yet another chamber?” asks Thor. “He already has plenty, does he not?”

 

Steve, who privately thinks Thor understands much more than he lets on about Midgardian idioms, but likes to watch them make fools of themselves trying to explain, catches Tony's eye and the two of them exchange a grin of perfect understanding.

 

“Silence in the Peanut Gallery,” Tony orders imperiously. “Or Captain Crunch over here won't bring us back any food. You can't watch a movie without popcorn and chocolate, it's sacrilegious.”

 

“I'll be good!” Clint promises at once.

 

“Will you _please_ ,” Bruce says, with a kind of desperate patience. “Be _quiet_?”

 

Which, Steve thinks, is his cue to leave the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Escaping to the kitchen gives Steve a chance to calm down and try to think. At least, in theory. He locates a bag of popcorn and shoves it in the microwave, then hunts through the cupboards for the other snacks, his heart still doing the weird butterfly-thing in his chest. He's pretty sure his pulse shouldn't be going so fast when all he's done is get up from the couch and walk across the room, but it isn't showing any signs of slowing down and that's...well. Distracting. As is the conversation he can hear drfting in from the other room.

 

“Why do you call him that, anyway?” He hears Natasha ask, her voice audible over the hum of the microwave. She sounds blandly disinterested, but with Natasha it's difficult to tell. “I thought you were the one who said that we're not soldiers.”

 

“ _We're_ not. But Steve is,” Tony says. “Super serum? World War II? I know you know this, you were at the briefing.”

 

“Nat and I were spies and assassins, but you don't call _us_ 'spy' and 'assassin.'”

 

“That's because you'd kill me if I tried.”

 

“Point.”

 

“That still doesn't explain why he has a nickname and we don't.”

 

“Aw, are you jealous? Sweetcheeks, all you needed to do was ask – “

 

“Shut up, Stark.” Steve winces at the sound of Tony's yelp, and guesses Natasha probably pinched him somewhere sensitive. “You didn't answer the question.”

 

“What's with the third degree all of a sudden? Can't a guy call his teammate names without it becoming an international incident?”

 

Steve doesn't hear Natasha's reply, because at that moment the popcorn kernels begin to pop, and the sound drowns out the voices from the living room. When he goes back in, though, bowl of buttery goodness in hand, Tony's sitting bolt upright on the settee and Thor is looking from him to Natasha and back again, a thoughtful expression on his face. Onscreen, the killer dispatches another hapless victim, but no one other than Bruce appears to be paying attention.

 

“What did I miss?” Steve asks, handing the popcorn to Clint and passing Tony his promised M&Ms.

 

“Nothing,” Tony says, tearing open the packet and shaking the chocolates into a bowl. He automatically starts separating the green ones, which he insists are the Other Guy's favourite. “Natasha is evil and almost everyone with a name is dead, but that's not news.”

 

“Merely pointing out the obvious, Stark.” The assassin says smugly.

 

Tony makes a face at her and slouches lower into the cushions, but although Steve re-settles himself and the movie goes on, the atmosphere in the room is nothing like the comfortable intimacy he had felt before he left. Tony remains firmly in the middle of the couch, arms folded, and doesn't touch Steve or Bruce for the rest of the night.

 

Which is fine with him. Absolutely fine. Why wouldn't it be?

 

*

 

Things are kind of weird, after that, although not in a bad way. While Tony never explicitly  _promised_ to behave, he seems to be making an effort to do so anyway, even going so far as to pay attention in meetings and refrain from making fun of Steve's control-freak tendencies, as he calls them, which Steve suspects is only achieved through considerable exertion of will. He is, in fact, noticeably subdued following the Movie Night Incident, although when Steve tries to ask him about it he just shakes his head and changes the subject. 

 

The only other person having difficulty with the whole concept of _normalcy_ is apparently Steve himself, who can't seem to stop looking at Tony. Even when he's thinking about something else, he finds himself darting little glances at him whenever he's nearby, as if in catching him unawares he might surprise the truth of Tony's feelings as it crosses his face. He doesn't, of course. The whole point is that it's not something Tony demonstrates outwardly in any visible way, except for those few moments when his guard is down. But Steve finds himself unable to resist checking anyway, even though he tries to tell himself that it isn't anything out of the ordinary. They're friends. Teammates. It would be strange if they  _weren't_ affectionate with one another.

 

That is, so he thinks, until Clint bluntly bursts his bubble one afternoon in the gym.

 

“So, what's up between you and Tony?” he asks casually, pausing to watch Steve's work-out on his way to the archery range. “I mean – how long has this thing been going on?”

 

Steve blinks away sweat and glances at him. “What thing?”

 

“You know! The thing!” The archer waves a hand. “The _thing_ thing. Don't try to kid me, Rogers, it's obvious Tony's got it bad.”

 

It takes Steve a second to understand what Clint means, and when the penny drops he can feel the heat rising up his entire body, until his cheeks are flaming like a furnace. He ducks his head a little, concentrating on the punching-bag.

 

“Don't be stupid,” he mutters. “We're just friends.”

 

“Sure you are,” Clint says. “And Budapest is just a city. We all heard him. I don't think he'd mind saluting the flag with you, if you know what I mean.”

 

Even Steve can't miss the obviousness of _that_ metaphor. He misses a punch, recovers, and tries to ignore his teammate's snickering in the background as he struggles to get the bag back under control.

 

“Firstly,” he says, timing his words in between punches. He still doesn't dare look up at Clint. “Budapest _is_ just a city. And secondly – “ _punch, punch,_ “Just because Tony _happened_ to call me a nickname a few times when he was half asleep doesn't mean we're...stepping out together, or whatever you want to call it.”

 

“That was more than just a nickname, Cap. When have you ever heard Tony Stark sound like that? Ever?” He shakes his head, looking mildly impressed. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I like the guy well enough, it's just usually he's all snark and no something-something.”

 

“Something-something,” Steve repeats.

 

“Call it what you like,” Clint says. “Soul, romance, whatever. You have to admit, when he's not schmoozing women in bars he's about as cuddly as the Hulk.”

 

“The Hulk isn't so bad, when you get to know him.”

 

“Okay, I'm not even going to touch that one. But you get my point.”

 

Steve stops punching and catches the swinging bag, leaning against it so that he can regain his breath. He's not sure if it's the conversation or the exercise that has left him so winded, and he'd rather not stop to think about it. “I get it, but I still don't see what that has to do with me. Tony and I aren't together.”

 

“Really?” Clint cocks an eyebrow at him. “Would you like to be? Because I think you're in with a chance, that's all I'm saying. But if you're not interested, you might want to let Tony know you don't swing that way, so he won't get his hopes up. Only – tactfully. You're good at being tactful, right?”

 

Leaving aside the strangeness of receiving relationship advice from _Clint_ , of all people, the entire conversation is starting to make Steve very uncomfortable. He turns back to the punching bag and starts hitting it again, mostly as an excuse not to have to answer the question. He doesn't have a problem with...that sort of thing at all – he never did, even if he does find the twenty-first century's _openness_ about sexuality disconcerting. That doesn't mean this discussion isn't making him decidedly nervous.

 

“Don't you think you're jumping to conclusions?” he asks Clint finally, keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on his own clenched fists. “I mean, even if I _was_ interested – and I'm not saying I am – have you ever seen Tony romantically involved with a guy?”

 

“Well, no,” Clint admits. “But I've never heard him talk to any of his dates the way he talked to you, either. Which, just so you know, was extremely sickening to hear and if he does it again I may have to throw up on you.”

 

Steve tries to look unaffected. “We're friends,” he repeats. “Of course he's going to sound different when he talks to a dame.”

 

He aims one last punch at the punching-bag, just to underscore his nonchalance, but to his chagrin the bag explodes under the impact, sending the reinforced hide and a ridiculous amount of sand spraying across the polished wooden floor.

 

“Uh huh,” Clint says, looking down at the shattered remains of the punching-bag. “Welp. Looks like you're doing really well with that denial so far, Captain. Let me know how it works out for you.”

 

He pats Steve on the shoulder and strides whistling out of the room, leaving Steve to stare at the mess on the floor, his heart pounding, wondering just what it is that he's so afraid of.

 

*

 

He figures it out a few days later, when Tony goes down in the middle of a fight and for a terrifying five minutes Steve can't get to him to make sure he's all right. It's not as if it hasn't happened before – they've all of them been injured or out of commission more than once – but the horrible plummeting feeling in his gut never gets any easier to bear.

 

“Tony!” he yells into the comm. “Dammit - Widow, Hawkeye, get to Iron Man. I'm caught in a bottleneck here.”

 

To their credit, none of the others questions the order or Captain America's sudden desire to resort to profanity. He's been trying to convince them that he's really not the innocent Boy Scout the media painted him as – and continues to paint him as, much to Tony's delight and Steve's annoyance – but until now he hadn't been sure if it had sunk in. At any rate, nobody's arguing, and he can see Clint dropping gracefully into the street near Tony's body out of the corner of his eye before he's forced to bring his shield up and concentrate on the robots in front of him.

 

When he finally manages to extricate himself from the villain du jour's mechanical minions, Steve finds the two assassins standing over Tony, whose armour is still smoking, the faceplate lifted. He isn't moving.

 

“He's unconscious,” Natasha tells him, somewhat unnecessarily, shifting so that Steve can crouch to take Tony's pulse. The steady beat beneath his fingers is reassuring. “I think he just hit his head, that's all. We've got medical on the way.”

 

Sure enough, a team of paramedics is picking their way through the debris, a stretcher clutched between them, although whether it's going to be strong enough to carry Tony _in_ the armour is an open question. At least they don't have to worry about jostling his neck or spine, Steve thinks, somewhat dazedly. The armour is locked in place, clearly some kind of protective mechanism designed for just such an occasion.

 

It should probably be worrying that this has become such a regular occurrence even Tony has a contingency plan.

 

“Steve?” Natasha puts a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

 

“Yeah – yes,” Steve gives himself a mental shake, and turns to smile wanly at her. She's watching him with wary eyes, her expression unreadable, but he thinks there might be a hint of sympathy in her face. “I'm fine. Where's Thor?”

 

“He's tracking down Banner,” Clint says. “The Hulk got a little over-enthusiastic with the robo-smash game. He may or may not have broken Harlem for the second time.”

 

Steve winces. Bruce isn't going to be happy. “Great. Have him take Bruce to medical for a once-over, will you? In fact, you should probably meet him there.”

 

Clint has a rather nasty burn across his forearm and he's holding his right wrist at an awkward angle, but he still shoots the Captain a look of disdain before nodding and turning to follow the trail of destruction that is the Hulk's calling card. Steve turns to Natasha.

 

“Would you mind checking this lot is well and truly out of commission?” he asks, gesturing to what was left of the world's latest robotic menace lying scattered over the pavement. “Oh, and make sure you snag an intact one for Tony. He'll want to take it apart when – when he wakes up.”

 

Natasha squeezes his shoulder, her way of communicating support as well as agreement, and moves off. Steve looks down at Tony's still face, watching as the paramedics work to lift him onto the stretcher. He'd offer to help, but they seem competent enough, and his own muscles feel strangely drained, like he's been holding up something heavy for far too long. He scrubs his face with his hands.

 

Tony is fine, or he will be. It's himself Steve isn't so sure about. When he'd seen Tony go down, something had twisted in his gut, a sharp, painful something he didn't remember feeling since the day that Bucky died. His body had reacted on auto-pilot, kicking and punching his way through the remaining robots, but for one dangerous minute he'd been unable to think through the fog of fear clouding his brain. It was just lucky the battle had been winding down already – had he been called on to make any kind of tactical decision, Steve is by no means certain he would have been able to do so.

 

“Captain Rogers?”

 

Blinking, Steve turns to one of the medics who has been trying to get his attention.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do you want to ride in the ambulance with us?”

 

“Oh. Um,” Steve hesitates, because he really should help Natasha make sure the bots are no longer a threat, but a large part of him doesn't want to let Tony out of his sight. “That is, I – “

 

“Sir!” another medic calls, interrupting. “Sir, he's coming round!”

 

Steve easily beats the other man to the ambulance, and he has a split second to wonder whether he ought to feel embarrassed at making his concern so obvious before Tony opens his eyes. For a moment, he looks confused, his brow furrowing as he takes in the medical equipment and the three worried people staring down at him, but the frown clears as his gaze focuses on Steve's face.

 

“Hey Soldier,” he croaks. “Did you catch the guy who dropped that building on me? 'Cause I wanna sue.”

 

Steve doesn't say anything. He's too busy trying to remember how to breathe. 


	5. Chapter 5

“I want off the team,” is the first thing Steve says to Director Fury after the de-brief. The director looks up from the paperwork he's signing, hand poised in mid-flourish, and Steve flushes darkly under the incredulous stare from his one good eye.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I want to hand in my resignation, sir,” Steve repeats, planting his feet. “Effective immediately.”

 

Fury hesitates for another thirty seconds, just long enough for Steve to start getting seriously uncomfortable, then sighs and puts down his pen. He folds his hands together on the desk in front of him and says mildly, “What brought this on?”

 

For a brief instant, Steve contemplates confessing everything – _well you see, sir, I think I may be in love with Tony Stark, and we both know that's not going to end well for anybody_ – but fortunately his survival instinct kicks in and he thinks better of it.

 

“I just...think it would be better for team morale?” he tries, knowing even as he does so that it's not going to fly. If possible, Fury's already-raised eyebrow rises even higher.

 

“You think it would be better for team morale,” he says, his voice flat. “Rogers, has anyone told you you're a terrible liar?”

 

Steve swallows.

 

“It has been mentioned once or twice, sir.”

 

“Have they also mentioned that I really don't like it when one of my team tries to lie to me?”

 

“Not...as such, sir.”

 

“Well, consider yourself warned. Now, you want to sit down and tell me what this is really about?”

 

It's not a suggestion. Steve sits. Fury waits in silence while he fidgets, picking at his nails like a naughty school-kid sent to the principal's office, and tries desperately to think of some way to explain the situation without actually _explaining the situation_.

 

“It's about Tony, sir,” he blurts finally. Unable to meet Fury's gaze, he stares fixedly at his lap. “It's become...difficult...working with him.”

 

“I see.”

 

He looks up to see Fury studying him, his face devoid of expression. It's rather like being stared at by a curious Grizzly, which does nothing to settle Steve's nerves.

 

“I never took you for a coward, Captain,” Fury says. “Though I'm sure Mr. Stark would be proud to know he's more daunting than the Red Skull.”

 

Steve can feel his blush returning, but he holds Fury's gaze.

 

“It's not my own welfare that I'm concerned about,” he says. “Mistakes happen when a leader is unable to remain objective about the soldiers under his command. People can get hurt.”

 

“Is this about what happened after the briefing a few weeks ago? Coulson told me that Stark was...quite affectionate, in the way he spoke to you. He was worried it might make you uncomfortable.”

 

“It doesn't make me uncomfortable. At least, not in the way Agent Coulson thinks. But if there's one thing I learned from leading the Howling Commandoes, it's that a team captain needs to be able to be impartial where it counts. And I'm,” he takes a deep breath, and lifts his chin. “I'm not entirely certain I can remain impartial where Tony is concerned, sir.”

 

There is absolutely no change in the Director’s expression. “Rogers, I'm going to tell you something that I tell very few people,” he says. “And I'm sure I can trust you to ensure it never goes further than this room. As aggravating and childish as the man may be, I do in fact have a very high opinion of Anthony Stark. I would like to keep him on the team, and part of that hinges on you remaining part of it also. So while I would very much like to grant your request — “

 

“Sir, please,” Steve breaks in, and it comes out a bit more desperate than he intends. He pulls back, drawing himself up with a little more dignity, and says, “If you’re not willing to let me resign permanently, then — then maybe I could take a holiday? Or go on an away mission, even. Just for a week or two. I just need some time to get my head on straight.”

 

Fury continues looking at him for a long moment, apparently gauging how serious Steve is, and Steve remains stoic, waiting. Finally, Fury sighs and shakes his head. “Fine,” he says. “I suppose I could use you for something, now that you mention it. There’s a little problem over in Russia that I haven’t been able to solve, perhaps you could take a crack at it.”

 

Steve exhales his relief, and nods, allowing Fury to draw him into his plans and trying not to feel too guilty about what he’s set in motion. He just…needs some time, that’s all. It’s not like he’s running away or anything. He’ll be back, just as soon as he figures things out. Assuming he _can_ figure things out. Which he doubts.

  

*

 

He goes to visit Tony in the hospital later, after he’s been back to the Tower to pack a bag and get all of his things. Bruce and Clint had been concerned about his impending absence, asking all kinds of questions about the mission and whether he really ought to be going in without the Avengers as backup, but Natasha had just nodded like it confirmed something she’d already suspected, and told the others to shut up and leave him alone.

 

“Be careful,” she’d said, giving him a hug just before he left. Steve had nodded, half smiling, and then she had looked him in the eye and said, “You should tell him, you know.”

 

“Tell who, what?” Steve asked, his heart pounding. But Natasha had just raised an eyebrow at him, and all right, he had known who she meant, of course he had, but it really wasn’t that simple. Was it?

 

Now, standing hesitantly at the threshold of Tony’s hospital room, he wonders if maybe it is. Maybe he should just walk in there and tell Tony how he feels, and let the chips fall where they may. He’s faced down all manner of aliens, villains and other monsters — surely he can handle this, too.

 

But, on the other hand, now probably isn’t the time. Tony’s pretty banged up, and he looks smaller somehow, lying there on the starched white sheets with his eyes closed, his body mottled with bruising and dried blood and god knows what else. Steve can still remember the crushing sensation of failure and guilt and loss that comes with losing someone he loves. That’s why he needs to get out now, put some distance between them, before this thing in his chest becomes too big to rein in.

 

“Hey, Soldier,” comes a voice. Steve’s head snaps up, to find Tony’s eyes open, watching him from the hospital bed and gone all soft around the edges. “You’re hovering,” Tony says, mouth quirking in a tired grin. “What’s the matter, afraid of catching cooties?”

 

Steve smiles back at him, but his heart isn’t in it.

 

“Hey, yourself,” he says, stepping a little further into the room. The light is so bright, he feels exposed, and wonders how on earth Tony could sleep with it glaring down at him all the time.  “How are you feeling?”

 

“Like a million bucks,” Tony says drily. “Docs say I’m gonna be okay, though. Said the suit took most of the damage, just knocked me about a bit.”

 

“Good,” Steve says, taking a breath. “Good, that’s — good. Um.”

 

Tony watches him with an expression that is faintly amused, faintly incredulous. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Cap,” he says. “But are you feeling all right? I’m the one with a concussion here, but you’re acting like you maybe took one too many hits to the head.”

 

Steve flushes, looking down. “It’s not that,” he says. “I mean, I’m fine. Really. I just…um, I’m going away for a while, and I wanted to see how you were before I — left.”

 

“Oh.” Tony goes quiet, then, the grin sliding right off his face. He starts picking at a loose thread on the sheet. “Right. Of course.”

 

“It’s just,” Steve hurries to add. “Fury has a mission, there’s a — situation — in Russia, and he needed — “

 

“Yeah, no, I get it,” Tony says. He shrugs a little, then winces. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I don’t need a nursemaid or anything, promise. You can go on your mission with a clean conscience.”

 

“Tony,” Steve starts. “That’s not what I — “

 

“Actually, I think I might just spend most of the time sleeping, anyway,” Tony says loudly, overriding him. He yawns widely, and even Steve can tell that it’s faked. “I’m on, like, twelve different kinds of painkiller, and my head feels all blurry. Good luck in Vladivostok, or whatever.”

 

It’s clearly a dismissal, and Steve feels his heart sink. He wants to stay and explain, but he’s not entirely sure what he could possibly say without giving everything away, and he’s still not ready for that just yet. And Tony really does look tired, deep lines gouged into the skin beneath his eyes, stubble turning his skin to an unhealthy grey beneath the harsh fluorescent light.

 

“All right,” he says softly, giving in. “I’ll um, I’ll see you in a few weeks, then.”

 

“Yeah,” Tony says, his head already turned away. “See you.”

 

Steve looks at him for a moment longer, but Tony’s eyes are closed, his breathing even and regular, his body held tense in a way that suggests he’s waiting for Steve to leave. So Steve does, eventually, closing the door quietly behind him and trying not to feel too much like the coward Fury had accused him of being.


	6. Chapter 6

Steve is gone for three and a half weeks, all told. Not that Tony is counting. In fact, Steve could have been gone much longer and Tony wouldn’t have even noticed, he’s pretty sure. He gets home from the hospital only a few days after Steve leaves, and spends most of the next week and a half buried in schematics, so absorbed that a herd of elephants could have moved into the Avengers Tower and started taking on super-villains and he wouldn’t have batted an eye.

 

He doesn’t miss Steve at all.

 

“You’re pining,” Natasha informs him, the moment he emerges from his workshop in search of coffee, food and possibly something soft that he can use as a bed. “It’s kind of cute, actually.”

 

“I’m not pining,” Tony says immediately, stopping in front of the coffee-maker and picking up a mug. Natasha is sitting on the counter, her legs swinging, her own mug clasped between her hands and emitting a delicious, caffeine-laden aroma. “And did you just use the word cute? Are you allowed to do that? I’m pretty sure they revoke your assassin card if you say anything that isn’t mysterious and laden with double entendre.”

 

Natasha shoots him a look, and flicks on the wall switch pointedly, causing the coffee-maker to grind loudly into life. Right. Not automatic. He should probably look into fixing that, one of these days. Maybe he could programme it to deliver coffee intravenously when he can’t be bothered getting up to fetch it. That would be cool.

 

“You’re wearing a Captain America shirt,” Natasha says.

 

“No, I’m not.” He is. “It was the only clean thing in the pile.”

 

“You _own_ a Captain America shirt,” Natasha says.

 

“I’m promoting the brand. It’s a business thing.”

 

“You programmed JARVIS to whistle ‘Star Spangled Man With a Plan’ at regular intervals, and you’re using Steve’s coffee mug,” Natasha says.

 

“Are you ever going to let this go?” Tony asks, irritated. “He’s my friend, he’s away on a mission, apparently he’s on my mind. Stranger things have happened.”

 

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re acting like a teenager with a crush.”

 

“He’s my best friend.”

 

Natasha examines her nails, eyebrows raised in two perfect arches. “Stranger things have happened.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“I know.”

 

 

+

 

 

Tony _does not_ pine. At all.

 

 

+

 

 

Okay, maybe he pines a little.

 

 

+

 

 

By the middle of the third week, Tony is ready to admit that, yes, all right, there is definitely some serious pining going on, but none of it is his fault, and he doesn’t even _like_ Steve, anyway. It’s just a thing that happens and eventually he’s going to have to get over it, because Steve obviously doesn’t feel the same way about him.

 

Oh, he knows Steve _cares_ about him. Would die for him, even, as he has proven on more than one occasion. But he’d do that for anyone, so it’s not exactly a grand gesture of romantic passion. And sure, Steve smiles at him a lot, and the corners of his eyes go all crinkly when he laughs, and it’s usually Tony he seeks out whenever he has some downtime because he’s said more than once that he’d rather spend time with him than almost anyone else, but that’s what best friends _do_ , they hang out together. Right? Unless Steve’s only hanging out with him out of pity, or to make sure he eats, which Tony admits that he sometimes does forget to do on a semi-regular basis. Or maybe _Steve_ is the one pining, only he’s given up hope of Tony ever having feelings for him because _clearly_ Tony is out of his league…

 

Eventually, when he gets sick of hearing his own thoughts going round and round in his head, Tony seeks the advice of the one person he can always count on to tell him when he’s being an idiot.

 

“Pepper, help,” he says, collapsing into the chair across from her desk and clasping his hands in front of his chest with his best pleading expression. “Steve and I are just friends, right?”

 

Pepper takes one look at him, and pushes a pile of papers away from her with an audible sigh.

 

“Hello, Tony, how are you?” she says. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

 

Tony waves a hand impatiently.

 

“I know you’re fine, you’re wearing the yellow shirt, you only wear that when you’re happy. Or going to _see_ Happy. Big date tonight?”

 

“Tony!”

 

“No, right, getting off the topic.” He fixes her with an expectant stare. “So. Steve and me. No chemistry whatsoever, am I right?”

 

Pepper looks away.

 

“He asked about you,” she says, not answering his question directly. “He came to see me a few weeks ago, when you started calling him Soldier.”

 

Tony stares at her. “He asked about me?”

 

Pepper smiles a little. “You were all he talked about, actually.”

 

“But,” Tony says. “Then why did he run away to Russia the second he got the chance? Fury doesn’t need Steve out there, he has a whole team of trained agents he could have sent instead. Even he’s not so much of a bastard as to send Steve over there alone unless Steve requested the assignment.”

 

“I did hear,” Pepper says carefully. “That Fury actually talked Steve out of resigning altogether.”

 

“What? Who told you that?”

 

“A little bird, Tony, who do you think?” She gives him a look. “Natasha and I both think you’re being very childish about this.”

 

“Am not,” Tony says, and sinks down in his chair with his arms folded, sticking out his tongue just to prove that he is, in fact, everything she’s ever said he was. “Why was Steve going to leave?”

 

“Perhaps that’s something you should ask him yourself,” she says, frowning. “You know I love you, Tony, and I’m glad we’re friends, but I am not your guidance counsellor. You’re an adult, even if you don’t act like it. You have plenty of experience with relationships — give Steve a chance, if that’s what you want.”

 

“Actually,” Tony says, annoyed into momentary honesty. “The only real experience with relationships I’ve had was with you. Which…wasn’t exactly a raging success, if you recall.”

 

Pepper blinks. He can tell he’s shocked her by the way she sits back a little, her spine straightening reflexively as she absorbs the information. He’s always loved the way she does that, squaring her shoulders in preparation for whatever life throws at her. He’s never had that kind of aplomb.

 

“Okay,” she says, at length. “Ignoring the fact that I’m not entirely sure whether that was an insult or a compliment, if you’re really looking for advice, then…talk to him. Ask him what you want to know.”

 

“This is too important, Pep.” Tony looks at her pleadingly. “He’s my best friend. I don’t want to fuck this up anymore than I already have.”

 

She looks at him for a long while after that, her expression unreadable even to him. Finally, she says, very gently: “If he really is your best friend, Tony, then telling him how you feel isn’t going to fuck anything up.”

 

Tony twists his fingers together. “And if he’s more than just a friend?”

 

Pepper regards him with a crooked little smile. “Then I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

 

 

+

 

 

Tony Stark is not in the habit of avoiding confrontation. As a businessman, Tony thrives on the existence of conflict, albeit so that he can sell people ways to eliminate it, and in his personal life he cultivates the refreshing habit of being totally unafraid to tell people exactly what he thinks. Just ask Pepper. She’s the one who has to clean up the mess after Tony opens his mouth and divulges his thoughts to all and sundry.

 

All of which is to say that, the fact that he happens to be hiding in the lab — working, _working_ in the lab — when Steve gets back from Russia is not some kind of pre-meditated thing. Even Tony will admit that he spends most of his time in there, barring that which is spent sleeping, eating or saving the world, so really it’s unsurprising that, when JARVIS alerts him to the fact that the Captain has returned, he’s far too busy to actually go upstairs to meet him. And he definitely does not contemplate ducking beneath his workbench and pretending to be elsewhere when the door to the workshop slides open some time later and Steve himself steps into the room, large as life and somehow twice as good-looking as Tony remembers.

 

“Oh, it’s you,” he says, not looking up. He’s doing very important and fiddly things with the remnants of one of Doom’s robots, and looking up just now is likely to result in things going boom. “Back so soon? Did you have fun in Outer Mongolia?”

 

“St Petersburg,” Steve corrects, without smiling. There’s a pause, and then he says hesitantly, “Can we talk?”

 

Yeah. Because that always bodes well.

 

“Talk?” Tony asks, because never let it be said that he doesn’t know how to be a dick when he wants to be. “You mean that thing people do where they open their mouths and sound comes out? I don’t know, can we talk, Steve? Because I was under the impression that you weren’t so keen on the whole communication thing.”

 

Steve frowns, his forehead wrinkling. “What? What are you talking about?”

 

Tony points an accusatory spanner at him. “You tried to quit the team without telling anybody!”

 

Steve winces. “Ah. Fury told you.”

 

“No.” Tony fixes him with a glare. “Of course Fury didn’t tell me, Fury never tells me anything. I had to find out about it from _Pepper_. Who found out about it from Natasha. Who didn’t tell me, obviously, because she’s a horrible person who likes to watch me suffer in ignorance.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yes, oh.” Tony throws his hands up in the air. “What the hell, Steve? Are you really so sick of working with us that spending a month in a nuclear wasteland seems like a fun alternative? Or is it just me you’re trying to avoid? Because I’m a big boy, you know, if you don’t want to be friends anymore you can just tell me.”

 

“Whoa, Tony, back up,” Steve says, holding up his hands with a wide-eyed look that, oddly enough, does nothing to quell Tony’s anger at all. “You weren't supposed to find out about that.”

 

“Which part?” Tony snaps, slamming a hand down on the workbench as he gets to his feet. “The part where you decided to ditch us all like a shitty prom date, or the part where we weren’t really friends at all?”

 

“We _are_ friends, Tony.”

 

“Yeah? Well excuse me for wondering, because you’ve been doing a really good impression of someone who doesn’t give a shit, lately.”

 

Steve looks stricken for a moment, and Tony almost bites through his tongue. There's telling it like it is, and then there's ripping open your own rib cage and offering someone your still-beating heart on a platter, which is essentially what he'd just done. Fortunately, Steve doesn’t seem to notice.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking genuinely contrite. “I didn’t mean for you to take it that way. It’s just…after you got hurt, I had to get away. I needed some time to think.”

 

Tony slants an eyebrow at him, nonplussed. “Don’t tell me you’re getting squeamish in your old age, Cap,” he says. “A superhero who faints at the sight of blood is just embarrassing. Not to mention in the wrong line of work.”

 

The Captain smiles faintly, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck.

 

“No, it’s not that,” he says. “It’s just…look, I think you might have been right.”

 

Which, _duh_. Obviously.

 

“I’m a genius,” Tony says. “I’m always right.” He pokes at the deconstructed Doom-bot, which whines and sparks in a mildly alarming manner but fortunately fails to explode, before turning back to Steve. “What was I right about?”

 

“I think I was trying to keep you out of the fight, before. Not intentionally,” he hastens to add, as Tony opens his mouth in outrage. “I just…I think maybe I put you in that position because I knew, subconsciously, that it was the least likely to see any action.”

 

“You set me up,” Tony accuses, folding his arms across his chest with a scowl. “I don’t need some kind of babysitter you know, Rogers. I’m perfectly capable of handling myself.”

 

“I know that,” Steve says. He’s ducking his head, his face turning a rosy shade of pink. Tony refuses to think that it looks good on him. “Only, I realised then that I…I mean, it took me by surprise, and then you…I maybe kind of panicked a bit, that’s all.”

 

“Steve,” Tony says, very slowly and clearly. “If you don’t actually finish a sentence I can’t understand what you’re saying. _What are you talking about?_ ”

 

“I like you,” Steve blurts, and his face is actually red now, so bright it borders on incandescent. “Not just in a friendly way. I mean, as more than just a friend. I didn’t — I’m sorry, I just didn’t know how to handle it. I thought if I stayed with the team, I’d be putting everyone in danger, because I couldn’t think straight after you got hurt. So I left.”

 

“And went to Russia.”

 

“And went to Russia,” Steve confirms. It should probably be illegal, his expression, looking up through his eyelashes at Tony with half-terror, half-hope like that. His mouth is still moving, so he’s probably still talking, but Tony can no longer hear him over the buzzing in his ears. Tony Stark does not _do_ stupid, he has a fucking genius IQ for Christ’s sake, but at that moment he’s pretty sure his higher brain functions have ceased to operate, because he feels anything but intelligent. Stunned would probably be more accurate. Blindsided, even.

 

“Let me see if I have this right,” he says, interrupting Steve’s increasingly unintelligible monologue with a raised palm. “Are you trying to tell me that you like me? As in, _like me_ , like me? Hearts and flowers and romantic getaways in Eastern Europe kind of like me?”

 

A smile tugs at the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

 

“And that whole quitting the team, running away to Russia thing — that was because you were so freaked out by the fact that I got injured that you would literally rather _flee the country_ than talk to me about how you felt?”

 

“Er,” Steve says, looking sheepish. “I guess so? It didn’t really help, though,” he added, as a kind of afterthought. “I was even more distracted over there, wondering how you were doing.”

 

“Right,” Tony says, nodding once and stepping forward into Steve’s space. “Well, so long as we’ve got that straight, then.”

 

Which is when Tony leans forward, and kisses him.

 

 

+

 

 

If Tony had thought about it — which he hasn’t, not at all, not even once — he’d have imagined that kissing Steve would be a nice, oddly patriotic, but overall underwhelming experience, at least to begin with. Somewhere along the line he’d gotten the impression that Steve was relatively inexperienced in the kissing department, let alone anything else, so in his fantasies — which he decidedly did not have, ever, shut up Natasha — imaginary-Steve had always been a little on the shy side when it came to the sexy stuff, and Tony, being Tony, was the one who had to show him the ropes and let his inner freak flag fly.

 

Reality-Steve, however, is the exact opposite of all of these things.

 

“Fuck,” Tony says, coming up for air after a creditably long time in order to stare at him in astonishment. “Where the hell did that come from, Rogers? Not that I’m not pleasantly surprised, or anything, but I kind of figured you for a saving-myself-for-marriage type of guy.”

 

“Not actually a Boy Scout, Tony,” Steve says, a pleased little grin playing around his mouth. It suits him almost as much as being pink-cheeked and shiny-mouthed does, and does some quite interesting things to Tony's libido. “I do keep trying to tell you.”

 

“But you’re,” Tony says, waving a hand to encompass Steve’s six foot something of pure American wet dream. “And I thought! But then you — ”

 

“If you don’t actually finish a sentence, I can’t understand you,” Steve mocks gently, and Tony hits him with a fragment of robot. It’s fine. The robot has been deactivated and Steve will barely even bruise. Still, he catches the thing before it can do more than bounce off his bicep, and puts it away carefully on the bench top out of Tony’s reach, causing Tony to look at him with feigned horror.

 

"I've created a monster,” he announces, pressing a hand to his chest. He studies Steve for another moment longer, before leaning in again and kissing him slow and filthy, a promise of things to come. “I like it. How about we take this to the bedroom?”

 

“Okay,” Steve agrees complacently. Then he grins. “As long as you promise to respect me in the morning.”

 

“Oh, I’ll respect you, all right,” Tony says with a leer. “I always salute the flag, you know. I work with the military.”

 

Steve rolls his eyes.

 

“You and Clint have really got to stop spending so much time together,” he says, resigned, but he doesn’t protest as Tony leads him up the stairs.

 

 

+

 

 

That night marks the first night that Tony has voluntarily slept in a bed since the Cretaceous Period — or, well, at least since he left the hospital, which in many respects feels like a geologic age ago. Not that they get a lot of sleeping done, _if you know what he means,_ but Tony decides that it totally counts, because when he wakes up he feels better than he has in months. He stretches languidly and rolls over to where Steve is also stirring, propping himself up on his elbows to look down into the other man’s face.

 

“Hey, Soldier,” he says softly, watching Steve’s eyelashes flutter in the late morning sunlight. “Sleep well?”

 

“Hmm.” Steve makes a sleepy noise. “What sleep?”

 

Tony snorts. “Forget about Clint, I think we’re the ones who have been spending too much time together. Either that, or my brilliant sense of humour is catching.”

 

“Lets hope not. There's only so many flag jokes I can take.”

 

“You know what, I take it back. You’re not funny at all.” Tony pokes him, and Steve grabs at his wrist without opening his eyes, using the leverage to drag Tony in for a proper good morning kiss. Tony goes easily, closing his eyes.

 

“I thought it was a little funny,” Steve says, after a moment.

 

“Not even a smidgen,” says Tony, valiantly resisting the lure of Steve’s crinkly-eyed smile. He nudges at Steve’s cheek with his nose, biting lightly at his chin. “So, no regrets, right?”

 

“None,” Steve says. And yeah, okay, so maybe that’s kind of obvious, if the hard length currently digging into Tony’s thigh is anything to go by, but hey — it never hurts to be certain. “Stop worrying, Tony. I can hear you thinking from here.”

 

“I’m a genius. I get paid to think,” Tony informs him, but he does what he’s told, relaxing into Steve’s embrace and hooking one leg across his waist so that their groins are pressed together snugly. Steve shifts up to meet him, hands splayed over Tony’s back.

 

“You know,” he says, conversationally, rolling his hips as he begins to press a winding pathway of kisses down Tony’s neck. “You never did tell me why you call me that.”

 

“What, Soldier?” Tony tips his head to the side. “That’s what you always wanted to be, isn’t it? I mean, that’s what my dad told me. Even when they wouldn’t let you enlist, and later when they wouldn’t allow you to fight, you still waged wars on behalf of the little guy. It’s like, your whole thing. Schtick. Spiel. It’s who you are.”

 

Steve stops what he’s doing and just looks at him, an expression in his eyes that Tony finds difficult to decipher.

 

“What?” he demands warily. “Something on my face?”

 

“No,” Steve says, his lips curling slowly upward into one of the brightest smiles Tony has ever seen him wear. “I just think maybe I love you, that’s all.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD, IT'S FINALLY FINISHED! It only took me...three years and change. Holy shit. Thank you so much to everyone who stuck with it and/or encouraged me with comments and kudos, you're the best. I have a teensy little bonus epilogue to post in a moment, just for you guys, and then this fic will be finally, absolutely, entirely done. Hooray! <3


	7. Epilogue

Fury is standing with his arms crossed, watching the foot traffic in the Quinjet bay, when Natasha opens the door.

 

“Well?” He asks, without turning. He can see her reflection just fine from here.

 

“Your winnings, sir.”

 

Natasha deposits a small sack on the conference table, and a bundle of coins tumbles out in a seemingly endless stream of tiny clinks. Naturally Barton had paid him in pennies, because the man never did things by halves, whether it was betting on his team-mates’ love lives, or being a pain in Fury’s ass. One almost had to admire the level of dedication.

 

“And Steve?”

 

“I think we got him straightened out.” Natasha pauses for a beat. “Well, straight may be the wrong word.”

 

“What have I told you about puns, Romanov?” Fury growls.

 

“That they’re unbecoming in a super-spy, sir?”

 

Fury nods emphatically. “This isn’t James Bond, you know. We don’t blow things up and ride off into the sunset with a pithy one-liner. We are SHIELD agents, not reckless MI6 wannabes.”

 

“No, sir. Of course not, sir.”

 

“Romanov, are you sassing me?”

 

He can see her smile, even in the glass.

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” she says, but even Fury knows by now that what Natasha  _ says _ and what Natasha  _ means  _ are often two very different things. He sighs. Nobody here shows him the proper respect. “Will that be all?”

 

“That will be all, Agent.”

 

She closes the door silently on her way out, just like a good little super-spy should, and only then does Fury turn to look at the pile of coins on the table. He’s not exactly smiling, but his usually stern features have softened a little, just slightly, if you know where to look. An alert klaxon sounds somewhere in the distance, and Fury pockets the bag before striding out into the corridor, his coat billowing behind him. Time to go watch those idiots save the world. Again.

 


End file.
